Straight Shot
by l.meis
Summary: When Harlan is overrun with skinheads the DC office sends in a 'specialist' to help round up the fugitives. Set after season 3 (because I haven't been lucky enough to see season 4 yet.) Rated for adult content and violence in later chapters. Tim/OC
1. Chapter 1

The click of stiletto heels was traveling up the hall. Deputy U. S. Marshal Tim Gutterson imagined long legs and round hips ticking back and forth under a pencil skirt. He imagined full breasts and a full mouth and long red hair. His only disappointment was that she bypassed the office and continued down the hall.

Not far behind her was a very different kind of woman. She was a brunette and she wore her hair very simply around her shoulders. She adorned her slim frame with a grey pant suit and small flat-heeled shoes. This woman did enter the Marshal office.

Chief Deputy Art Mullin poked his head out into the common area, "Snow?" he asked.

She nodded and held out her hand. He shook it and then showed her into his office, shutting the door behind them. As soon as the door latch clicked Rachel Brooks leaned over from her desk on Tim's right and hissed, "Who is that?"

"If you whisper much louder she might come out and introduce herself," Raylan Givens said quietly from his desk between them.

Rachel smiled at Raylan, "Do you think that she is the one Art mentioned?" In the recent months Harlan had experienced a large influx of Aryan gangs, many of them fugitives in other states. Raylan had no doubt that this sudden migration had something to do with the prison ministrations of Boyd Crowder. He had no doubt that they had been drawn, as Boyd would have said, like moths to the flame of righteousness.

Art was sure that the Lexington Marshall office had things under control, but after the bombing of several local minority owned business, the bigwigs in D.C. had decided to send someone they referred to as an 'expert' who could help them organize their extensive list of suspects and ensure that they were investigating the leaders.

He brought her out into the main room and made a general introduction. Doctor Sarah Snow was a criminal psychologist who would be assisting them indefinitely. Her eyes rested on each of them in turn when Art gave her their names. Raylan was sure that she would remember every one. When his name was called she gave him a once over and moved on, but he was surprised by the razor sharp intelligence that he saw in her eyes. It changed her face from something that was almost plain to something interesting and beautiful.

Art led her into the small conference room where he left her with the instruction to ask anyone if she needed anything and Raylan if she needed someone shot. She glanced out at Raylan with a smirk on her face. After Art left she set about arranging the precarious pile of criminal files he had given her.

She built a photo pyramid with magnets on the wall-mounted whiteboard and stepped back and studied it for several minutes. Raylan and Rachel lined up to admire her quick work.

"Where did you go to school?" Raylan asked, moving closer to the board to inspect the names written on the bottoms of the photographs. He was suspicious of her presence, but for good reason. The last psychologist he'd worked with had done nothing but put a murderer back on the streets with his diagnosis of 'post traumatic stress' and recommendation that the man be sent to court mandated therapy. He'd killed again within hours of being released.

"I studied at Harvard," Sarah answered, sitting down to her computer. She was searching through a folder full of mugshots.

"Is that what makes you an expert?" Tim asked, appearing behind them.

"No. I spent the last four years in prisons interviewing inmates who identify themselves as 'Aryan soldiers,'" she replied without looking up.

"Don't mind them," Rachel assured her. "They go around beating their chests all day- no matter who is in the room."

Sarah turned to the board and smiled when she saw the looks Tim and Raylan were giving Rachel, "The top three are the ones you should be focusing on, but you haven't found the most important one yet." She swiveled her laptop to show them all a picture of a tiny, hard-faced man named Clifton Stephson.

"I know that name." Tim said, frowning. "Georgia?"

"Yes," Sarah replied, "Stephson killed fourteen black men and women over the course of a week and a half just outside of Atlanta last year. He locked them in the shacks where they were making crack and lit them on fire. All fourteen burned alive. The FBI believes that he deliberately skipped over cook-houses run by whites- and he isn't limited to setting fires. He is also suspected of bombing an Islamic church in Virginia."

"How do you know he is here?" Art asked from the doorway.

"If he isn't he will be soon. More than half of the files I've looked through so far are known associates. They are the group up at the top," Sarah told him gesturing back to the whiteboard. "I think that his second in command is his half-sister, Clara All. She has avoided arrest thus far, but I met her briefly when the FBI was investigating the fires in Georgia and she is full of just as much venom as he is."

Art studied the computer screen and then the photos on the board. "Do we have a last name on this one?" he asked, gesturing to the top photo. It was a man named Jimmy Joe.

"I think that is his last name," Raylan said, smiling. "Two first ones- he's a winner."

Art nodded. He seemed pleased that Sarah had presented him with a useful hierarchy so quickly. "Rachel, Tim, I want you to speak to him. Luckily for us he is locked up so you won't have to look too far. Raylan, go talk to Boyd. See if he knows anything about Stephson."

Raylan's eyebrows jumped up toward his hairline, but he only nodded. Boyd Crowder was usually a good place to start.

Rachel gathered Jimmy Joe's file and she and Tim headed out to the prison. He glanced over his shoulder at Sarah before he left. She was studying the pictures on the whiteboard again. He wondered briefly about something he'd seen in her eyes, but Rachel was hurrying to catch the elevator and he hurried out after her.


	2. Chapter 2

Ava Crowder's house was still when Raylan drove up, but Boyd appeared on the front porch as soon as Raylan got out of his car.

This was all part of the dance. On any given day Raylan may show up to ask Boyd about his possible involvement in illegal activity. Boyd was involved in so much illegal activity that he had to sort out exactly what Raylan wanted to talk to him about.

Their relationship was complicated. Raylan had arrested him several times and on one occasion he had shot him. Given these factors it would be easy to overlook the likelihood that Boyd was the best friend that he had had, or probably would have, in his whole life.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Raylan?" Boyd asked as he approached.

"I need to talk to you about some bombs that went off in Lexington."

"You setting off bombs, baby?" Ava asked from inside. She was watching them through the screen door.

"Not lately," he told her without turning around. His eyes never left Raylan.

"I've just got a couple of names to run by him, Ava," Raylan assured her. "I don't plan on arresting anyone."

"In that case, why don't we take a walk?" Boyd offered. "I haven't had a chance to stretch my legs yet today."

Raylan tipped his hat to Ava. She smiled back but there was no warmth in her eyes. Their relationship was complicated too. They had been lovers in the first weeks after Raylan returned from Florida and their romance had ended badly.

"If I had to guess I'd say that you are here about the black businesses," Boyd offered when they got out of earshot of the house.

"You'd guess right," Raylan replied. "I don't suppose you know anything about them."

"I know very little on the subject. There is a fair chance that supremacists are involved."

"That may be the least helpful thing that you have ever told me."

Boyd's face changed, his brow scrunched down, "As you know, I do not keep my ear to that particular ground anymore. I have heard rumblings of activity on Rose, but you know how vague rumblings can be."

He'd given as little as he possibly could. Raylan wasn't surprised. "I guess that's about better than nothing."

"Anything is better than nothing, Raylan," Boyd said. He was smiling like a fool.

Before Raylan had a chance to respond Ava called Boyd's name from the front porch.

"I believe that is mine," Boyd turned to wave at her. His grin was impossibly wider.

"Does the name Clifton Stephson mean anything to you?" Raylan pryed.

"I know he burns people while they are still alive," Boyd turned back, all traces of mirth gone from his face.

"Is he here?"

"That, Raylan, is something I honestly do not know. I suspect that he might be, but I hope that he is not. If he thinks that it will eliminate the black-folk he will burn Kentucky to the ground."

* * *

Jimmy Joe was protesting, for the fifth time, that he "don't know no Clifton." Rachel sighed. She and Tim had spent far too long listening to that same mantra. Joe couldn't seem to come up with any supporting evidence of his claim- or even just another way to get his point across.

Tim finally laid several FBI surveillance shots out on the table in front of Joe."That's strange that you don't know him, because we have all of these pictures of you together."

Joe's face fell. "Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"Do you know where Stephson is?" Rachel asked.

"Ain't heard from him in six months," Joe informed them. It had taken quite a push for him to change his tune, but she thought that now he just might sing.

"Where was he six months ago?" Tim leaned forward.

"Mexico," Joe replied. He spoke down to his lap, a lie was inherent in his body language.

"And now?" Tim almost snapped. He had very little patience and he was losing it rapidly. "Is he in the 'Harlan' part of Mexico?"

"There's a Harlan in Mexico?" Joe asked looking back up at them, hope in his eyes. "Yeah, he's in Harlan. The Harlan in Mexico! That's where he went."

Rachel couldn't believe what she was hearing. It was so ridiculous that she wanted to believe that Joe was making it up.

Tim gathered the photos and returned them to the file folder. He smiled and said, "Thank you, Jimmy."

"What?" Joe shouted as they left. "I told you he's in Mexico!"

"I don't think I truly understood Raylan's bit about 'two first names' until now," Rachel said as they walked back the car. "That was an impressive display of ignorance."

"There are drawbacks to inbreeding," Tim told her. She knew he was trying to make her smile but his expression never changed.

She rewarded him with a grin. "We can be pretty sure that Stephson is in Harlan, I guess, but where in Harlan?

"Same place we found Jimmy Joe, I imagine," Tim replied, flipping Joe's file open to check his know addresses. "Yes sir, we're headed to Rose."

Rachel sighed. The full name of the street known locally as 'Rose' was 'Rose of the Blessed Mother, Light of the Holy Father.' It had been the home of a Ku Klux Klan church of the same name until it burned to the ground in 1982. The church hadn't been rebuilt. Instead, a single house stood on the property where the church had been- a fitting location for a den of white supremacists. It was going to be a fun afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

Sarah was still in the small conference room pouring over the files that Art gave her. The top folders had been the ones that the Marshal's were already pretty sure were important, but there were still twenty more to look through. Assault. Assault. Assault with a deadly weapon. Murder. More assault. Arson. Possession. Possession with intent. Assault.

A folder overflowing with papers caught her eye. It belonged to the arrest records of Shemmy Williams, a man who had been arrested four times on the charges of 'assaulting an officer.' The first three times resulted in only minor injuries and dropped charges, but on the fourth occasion he had sprayed a sheriff's deputy with most of a can of mace and lit him on fire. The deputy died and Williams disappeared. He was listed as a fugitive and was a close associate of Clifton Stepson.

She took the file to Art. "Tell them to find this one. If he is there, Stephson is there."

He gave her the look of a man who wasn't accustomed to being given orders, but after he read the file he called Rachel, "If you find Shemmy Williams there you haul his ass in. He's been committing hate crimes since he was eleven-years-old. I'm sending his picture now." He hung up after listening to her brief response, snapped a picture of the file with the camera on his phone and sent it to her. "Crowder sent Raylan along to Rose, so all three of them ended up in the same place," he told Sarah. "If he's there, they'll find him."

"I want to talk to him when he gets here," Sarah informed him.

"Williams? If Raylan doesn't tear him apart on the ride back you are welcome to him. Luckily Rachel is there. She's the only one of 'em who really has any sense."

Sarah chewed her bottom lip, "Your boys had better be careful."

Art laughed. Her statement had filled him with genuine humor. "Careful? Shoot, girl, this ain't the FBI!"

She replayed what she had said and smiled, and it wasn't until that moment that he decided for sure that he liked her. He's been grumpy about the suggestion of bringing in someone from the outside, but she'd nailed down two prime suspects in less than forty minutes and a third one on the same day. He supposed that she would do.

* * *

When the church on Rose burned down the tall hedge fence that surrounded it had remained in tact. When Raylan joined Rachel and Tim they were standing by their car behind the leafy wall. They couldn't see what was happening in the house, but the people in the house couldn't see them either. Rachel held up her phone to show Raylan the photo that Art had sent her. "Snow says that if Stephson isn't here, Shemmy Williams will know where to find him."

"We think he's probably here, though." Tim added.

"Did Jimmy Joe give him up easy?" Raylan asked.

"Jimmy Joe probably thinks he didn't give him up at all. He's got about enough brains to fill a thimble," Tim told him. "You guys go ahead. I'll be fine back here with my gun." He moved to the back edge of the hedge fence where he could easily spot someone trying to make a run for it out the back.

The sidewalk up to the front door was littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. The front windows were covered up by boards from the inside. The front porch creaked when Rachel stepped up onto it and groaned in protest when Raylan joined her. He knocked on the door.

A very grumpy woman answered the door. The smell of sweat and meth and marijuana that wafted out was so powerful that Raylan's eyes watered. He thought that she may have been a beautiful woman once, but her teeth were eaten away by methamphetamine use. Her hair hung around her face in unwashed strands and she had a cold sore starting at the corner of her mouth. "What?" she asked.

"I am Deputy U.S. Marshall Raylan Givens, this is Deputy Rachel Brooks. Can we come in, ma'am?"

"No," she replied through the screen door. She made no move to open it.

"Ma'am, is there a Clifton Stephson here?" Rachel asked. When the woman replied a simple negative Rachel continued, "What about Shemmy Williams?"

Again, the only answer they received was a monotone "no."

There was a pause and the back screen door slapped shut. They heard Tim's voice from the side yard, "Hands up, don't move. Dammit, I said just stand there."

Raylan eyed the woman in front of him, "That Shemmy or Clifton?"

"No," she replied and closed the door in his face.

"Don't worry, I'm pretty sure we'll be back," he muttered to the closed door. He and Rachel went around to the side of the house. Tim met them halfway with a man in handcuffs.

"Shemmy Williams, as I live and breathe!" Raylan proclaimed.

"He tried to give you the slip, Raylan," Tim informed him, a twinkle in his eye.

"I think maybe he should ride back with me so that I can impress upon him the rudeness of his actions," Raylan said, taking Williams off of Tim's hands.

"I could not agree more," Rachel smiled.

Williams spit on her and shouted, "You don't talk when white men are talking!"

Raylan brought an elbow to his face and there was a crunch as his nose broke. He doubled over in pain, shouting something about police brutality. Raylan dragged him to his car and shoved him roughly into the back set.

"You shouldn't have been resisting arrest like that, Shemmy," Tim called after him, laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

Clifton Stephson peaked at the U.S. Marshals through a gap in the plywood covering the windows. He swore under his breath when the black bitch asked for him by name.

He whipped his head around when the back door opened, "Shemmy!" he shout-whispered.

It was too late. Shemmy Williams was already gone.

When he turned back the woman who had answered the door, his sister Clara, was back inside. "Bitch, why did you talk to them?"

"You know they woulda' come inside if I hadn't!"

He smacked her across the face, knocking her over into the door. She pulled herself up and smacked him back, laying him out in the entryway. Dust and dirt puffed up out of the carpet around him.

He leapt to his feet and backed her into the corner, his face a mask of uncontained rage. He stood there admiring her cowering for more than a minute before he gently, with a single finger, tilted her face up to his and kissed her.

She threw herself on him and they made love there in the corner for the whole house to see. Johnny Thurt and Tyrol Smith were the only ones there to watch. They were sitting on the couch in the living room sharing a bong.

"Aint right, you know?" Johnny observed.

"What?" Tyrol asked. He was observing the Stephsons with mild, stoned interest.

"Them making it," Johnny explained. "Don't it say something in the Bible about not making it with your sister?"

"They're only half," Tyrol reasoned. "Besides, Clif and Clara take good care of us."

Johnny only nodded and took another hit off the bong in response. They watched Clifton and Clara until they were done, each crying out their passion at the end.

With his needs satisfied, Clifton turned to Johnny and Tyrol, "Did Shemmy ever come back?"

"Think he got arrested," Tyrol answered through his marijuana haze.

"Well shit," Clifton muttered.

"Do you think Jimmy Joe ratted us out?" Clara asked, coming up behind him.

"Jimmy isn't smart enough to rat anything out... unless that negress tricked him into it," his face shifted from anger to suspicion. "We need to talk to Shemmy at the jail- find out what they picked him up for."

"I'll go, baby," Clara smiled. She was the only one in the house without a criminal record or active warrant.

"See if he knows who found us. We are doing important work here and it can't be interrupted. I'm going to put whoever it was in the ground."

* * *

Williams was in the Marshal office for more than three hours answering questions for the marshals and then for Sarah. She took her notes in shorthand, a skill Raylan had thought lost to the digital age. When she was finally done she turned to Art and asked, "You want this back?"

Art laughed, leaving the others feeling as though they had missed something important. He nodded to Tim who hauled Williams out of his chair and took him to the prison where he would be dumped into a holding cell and held until he could be in-processed on suspicion of arson and murder in the bombings in Lexington.

"You got anything useful in that chicken scratch?" Art asked, glancing at Sarah's notes.

"I don't think so. Maybe," she frowned down at her paper.

"You weren't just asking him about bombs," Rachel said, suspicion edging into her voice.

"My interviews in the prisons have led me to believe that there is a communication network in place that is connecting white power organizations together. I can't tell how extensive it is, if it is just lines of communication, or if someone is running it from the top and the orders are trickling down." She paused and frowned again, "Stephson is the highest ranking member of this network I have been able to identify so far, but I don't think that he is sitting at the top."

"What do you mean by 'extensive?'" Raylan piped up from his seat on the other side of the table.

"It could be just a couple of states, it could be the whole south. It could even be national or international."

"This is why they sent you?" Rachel asked.

Sarah nodded. "They sent me here to service two projects. All of my resources are at your disposal, but you will probably contribute just as much to my research as I contribute to your investigation."

Raylan's phone rang. "Excuse me," he flipped the phone open, "Givens."

He listened at length to the voice on the other end and said, "Okay. Thank you."

Rachel looked at him expectantly.

He heaved a huge sigh and said, "I have to-. That was-." Then he looked at Art and sighed, "Arlo."

"Get out of here then," Art told him. "In fact, all of you get out of here. It's way past quitting time."

Sarah stayed a little longer than the rest, typing up the notes of her interview with Shemmy Williams. She was trying to make some sense of what he had told her, trying to find any connections to a high-up in a shadow organization that might not even exist. She felt for sure that it was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim stopped off at his favorite watering hole that evening after taking Williams to the jail and he was surprised to find Sarah sitting at the bar. She was frowning at the football game that was playing on the small television behind the counter. He walked up behind her and waved at the bartender. "One of hers and one of mine." he requested, noting that her glass was almost empty.

She glanced back over her shoulder, "Good evening, Marshal."

"Evening Dr. Snow," he returned, lifting himself onto the stool next to her.

She smiled, "Just Sarah, please. Dr. Snow sounds like an old pulp villain."

The bartender brought their drinks over and they watched the football game in silence for a few minutes, her frown growing deeper as the final seconds counted down. She grumbled over her drink, "I hate football."

"I'd hate football too if I was rooting for the Lions," he informed her solemnly.

She laughed a little, "Oh, I come from a long line of Lions fans, Marshal. We don't expect to win, we just hope to do a little better each time."

Tim surprised himself by laughing out loud, "Michigan. With that accent I thought you might be from Canada."

"I did get my masters in Ontario, but I am from Cooper Harbor, Michigan, population 192. It's about as far north as you can get and still be in the states."

He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the shouting of another patron, "Hey baby!" A man stumbled up behind Sarah and draped his arm around her shoulder, nearly dragging her off of her stool. Her face twisted into an exasperated frown and she squirmed away from him. "What are you doing, baby?"

Tim judged that the man was drunk, but not so drunk that he didn't know better. He stood and pushed the man back with the tips of his fingers, just trying to put some distance between him and Sarah. The man toppled to the ground, swearing and promising revenge on his attacker. Tim was pretty sure that alcohol had caused the man's up-ending, but was happy to take the credit.

Sarah laughed. She leaned over to the man and said, "I think you need to have your inner ear checked."

"Stupid cop-whore!" the man shouted. She looked over at Tim, confused, and saw that he had his badge pinned to his belt. She turned back to her suitor and kicked him sharply in the ribs. He stopped bellyaching long enough to take a deep breath. When he started in again he was hollering.

Sarah knocked the rest of her drink back. "Thank you, Marshall," she said. Before she turned to leave she dropped enough money on the counter to pay for her drinks and his. She stepped over her admirer who was still howling in the floor.

Something about the way that she smiled at him as she walked by made him watch her until she was out the door and out of sight. Something about that smile had him thinking about her through his next drink. She didn't stick in his mind too long, though if he had known where she would be the next time he saw her he might have thought about her a little longer. By the time the next game came on he was thinking about football again and not about Doctor Sarah Snow.

* * *

Raylan sidled up to a different bar that night- the one that he lived over. The one owned and operated by Lindsey Salazer, the barmaid he was sleeping with. She was tall and slim and he knew deep down inside that she was just stand-in for Winona, but they had fun and he suspected that that was all that she was really looking for anyway.

He was already a couple of beers and several shots of whisky in when the first fight of the night broke out. He'd gotten a discount on his rent for agreeing to keep the peace on busy weekend nights so he stumbled into the scuffle and pulled the men apart by their shirt-collars. "You mind?" he asked when he was sure he had their attention, "I'm trying to drink and I can't when you're shouting like that. It makes the boss-lady unhappy and you don't' want her to be unhappy. She's got a gun back there way bigger that this pea-shooter," he gestured to the holstered gun at his hip.

The men backed away from each other, but grudgingly. They weren't done giving him trouble, but he was grateful for the reprieve.

When he got back to the bar, Lindsey had already poured him another shot. "Thank you, darlin'," she smiled.

"Don't mention it," he smiled back. He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was planning on joining him upstairs after she closed up that night.

He was right. She crawled naked into his bed around 3:00.

To call what they did making love would have been an insult to the act of lovemaking. They fucked. He fucked her, they both cried out their pleasure, and then they went to sleep. When an early morning phone call woke him up at 4:15 she was long gone.

* * *

Tim got home early that night and quickly changed out of his work clothes and into a comfortable pair of sweatpants. After a short inspection he found that his refrigerator didn't contain anything appetizing, but he did open a beer to chase what he'd had at the bar.

He turned on the television and found a movie to watch- some old western. He didn't pay much attention to it. His head felt light and fuzzy, buzzing around his shoulders.

It wasn't long before he nodded off on the couch, snoring quietly. He dreamed of a cabin he had played in when he was a child. It had been a hazardous place with rotting floors and shards of glass from windows that had been broken out with rocks. It smelled of dust and mold and death, but it was prime real estate for a group of eight year olds playing hide and seek.

He was playing that childhood game in his dream, systematically searching all of the best hiding places. He'd already found Art in the hall closet and Rachel hiding under the sink. Now it was just a matter of finding Raylan.

He had checked all of the good places and was starting to get frustrated when a voice whispered his name, "Tim. Hey, Tim!"

He jerked his head around, searching for the source of the sound. Sarah Snow was sitting on the floor behind the mouldy plaid couch with her knees pulled up to her chest. She held her finger up to her lips, shushing him, and then pointed to a floor lamp that was wearing Raylan's hat. He smiled at her and she smiled back, the same quiet smile she had given him as she left the bar.

He went over and tagged Raylan, who pulled a lamp shade off of his head with a sheepish look on his face. When Tim looked back over to Sarah she was gone.

He had passed from that dream into another before his phone beeping woke him up. As always, he awoke fully alert. "Gutterson," he answered

Art started talking before he could finish his salutation, "This is an all-hands call to Good Samaritan Hospital. Snow has been assaulted."


	6. Chapter 6

Rachel was already there in the lobby of the ER with Art when Tim arrived. "What happened?" he asked.

"I don't know exactly yet either," Art replied as Raylan joined them looking disheveled from sleep. "She's in a room up the hall and the doc is waiting for us."

Tim felt a touch of apprehension as they made their way up the sterile hallway.

The doctor, a young man with a confident voice, warned them, "It's pretty bad, but not as bad as it looks." Rachel took in a long slow breath when he pulled back the curtain that encircled her bed.

Her hands were bruised. One of them was wrapped in gauze and there was more of it covering her nose, which seemed to sit at a slightly different angle than they remembered, and her left eye was swollen shut. "She has a concussion, three broken ribs, a broken nose, a broken finger, two broken toes, fourteen individual cuts across her abdomen (that are luckily fairly shallow), and multiple other scrapes and contusions. There were also shards of glass imbedded in her right hand. PD noted a broken wine glass in her hotel room. I assume the glass came from that," the doctor explained.

Raylan exhaled heavily. Tim recognized the bloody knuckles and the long cut on her right forearm for what they were: defensive. Someone beat her badly, but she'd given a damn good account of herself before she'd been forced down- probably by the blow to the head that caused the concussion. Something shifted in his chest. "Who did this?"

"She didn't tell us," the doctor said. He sounded like he'd like to give the person who'd beaten her up a piece of his mind. "We gave her a sedative to help with pain. She should be out for another six to eight hours."

Art pulled them aside while the doctor took Sarah's blood pressure and other vitals. "There is a good chance that someone from that house on Rose found her. I want Raylan and Rachel on that. Tim, stay here until she wakes up or you hear different. I'm not giving those bastards a chance to finish the job if they find out she's not dead." He didn't even wait for a response from his deputies before he turned on his heel and marched off, already punching numbers into his cell phone. He was on the warpath.

"Call me if anyone gives you trouble," Raylan told Tim as he and Rachel turned to leave. Tim nodded curtly. He checked the activity level in the hallway outside of the hospital room and peeked out the tiny window that looked out over the parking lot. Satisfied, he sat down and began his long watch in the chair by Sarah's hospital bed. He studied her cut arm and swollen knuckles, and the place inside of him that had shifted began to take root and grow.

* * *

He was still there when she woke up early the next morning.

"Marshal?" she said, sounding fuzzy through her broken nose.

"How's your head?" he asked. He leaned out of the hospital room door and waved at the nurse who was making her rounds just up the hall.

"It's like shit, what kind of question is that?"

He couldn't keep from smiling and he moved closer to the bed so that she could see the effect her comment had had. "What happened last night?" he asked her.

"I went back to my hotel after I left the bar. I was reading, the door opened... Then I was flying across the room," she explained, studying him with her good eye.

"Looks like you gave him the good old one-two before he got you down, though," he informed her.

"For all the good it did me," she said trying to sit up. She barely shifted her head before she thought better of it.

"Who was it?" he asked, leaning in a little. "Was it one of those assholes on Rose? Did they follow you home after we arrested Williams?"

She startled him by laughing- a single sharp sound that held no humor. "Marshal, this wasn't just some criminal. My ex-husband did this."

* * *

Tim was so bowled over by her statement, such a far cry from what he'd been expecting, that he was glad that Art arrived in time to hear the explanation that went with it. "

He only hit me once. Just once. I didn't wait around for 'Oh, baby, I'm sorry,' or 'Oh, it will never happen again.' I just left," she sighed and then flinched from the pain in her ribs. "I was done with him. I filed for divorce. He found me the day the courts served him with the papers and he beat me. Not as bad as this," she noted, gesturing to her eye, "but pretty bad. He told me that I couldn't divorce him because I belong to him. That time I went to the cops. They arrested him but he jumped bail. He is currently a fugitive from the law in the great state of Michigan, and because of his fugitive status, I got my divorce."

"And last night?" Art asked.

"He said he'd been trying to track me down for three years- ever since I moved out of the apartment we had together. I kept my phone number unlisted and used a P. O. Box to make it harder for him to just show up at my doorstep. Some stupid place that still had us on record as spouses called him and asked him to confirm my change of address. I guess I probably wasn't too hard to find once he knew that I was in Lexington."

"His name?" Art produced the small notebook he kept in his back pocket.

"Nathan. Nathan Mitchell, double-L," she answered. She was busy watching Art jot the name down in his notebook and missed Tim making a note of it in his head.

"How much longer are they keeping you?" Art asked.

"I'll be here for at least the next couple of days. If I get lucky I'll be out right on time to move into the house I rented," she told them.

Art glanced over at Tim who had a look in his eye Art had never seen before, something soft. "Okay," he said, "You sit tight. Tim, can I have a word?" Tim followed him out into the hallway and Art asked, "What are you thinking, boy?"

"She'll be glad to get into her house," he answered simply. His voice, his posture, and his eyes were telling the truth, but there was something in the wrinkle of his brow that Art didn't trust.

"You be careful," Art said, poking him in the chest with a single finger. "Now stay here. I'm going to go run the husband's name."

Art left and Tim went back into Sarah's room. She had fallen asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Two weeks later Sarah slept soundly in her own bed in her new house just outside of Lexington. Art had judged that she would not need permanent federal protection so Tim was laying wide awake on his couch thinking about her. Protection detail was never easy. It required a special kind of alertness and focus and he'd always hated it. He wished that Art had ordered him to stay with her, though. He didn't think that she was in any immediate danger. No, he wanted to be with her because of how badly he wanted her. He wanted to brush her hair out of her eyes and to know what her skin would feel like against his skin. To know without a shadow of a doubt that she was safe.

It felt absurd. He'd known her for two weeks and that was all the time it had taken for her to set up residence in his mind, but she persisted no matter how he tried to convince himself that he was just being silly.

He had still been with her as her appointed protection when she was released from the hospital and he had taken her to her new home: a small two bedroom house in a quiet Lexington suburb.

He spent the entire drive trying to convince her to let him help her up the stairs leading to the front door. She refused despite her broken ribs and bouts of concussion related vertigo. When they arrived, she pulled herself up the few front steps and stumbled at the top, landing hard on her damaged hand. She cried out in pain and swore to shame a sailor.

He hurried to help her up. When their eyes locked a shock ran through his body. For a moment he thought that she had felt it too, but she looked away and he decided that he had imagined it. His heart hammered in his chest. After that moment he was done lying to himself.

Ignoring her protests, he'd picked her up and carried her through the front door- an unconscious but symbolic display of the affection he felt for her. He set her down on her couch amid the boxes that the moving company had dropped off and brought her one of her giant pain pills. Soon after than she was asleep and he was left alone to ponder his sudden attachment to her and what it meant that he had been pulled in so quickly.

His mind drifted back to the present. Back to his empty house. Back to the pile of paperwork waiting for him when he got to work the next morning. Back to the beer staring at him from the coffee table.

He took a long pull from the bottle. As far as comfort went it wasn't much, but anything was better than nothing.

* * *

Sarah spent her first day back to work stuck in an elevator with Raylan. The lift stopped between floors one and two and was in that position for nearly six hours. He spent the first few minutes hopping from foot to foot, muttering something about an important phone call.

She sat down in the floor and invited him to join her, warning him,"If you keep jumping around like that you're going to give me diabetes."

He stood for another ten minutes before he finally joined her in the floor. He gestured to her splinted finger, "That bothering you too bad?"

"Not most of the time," she smiled. "Only when I remember that I can't type without it."

"You heard anything from your husband?"

"Ex-husband. Were you stuck with the unfortunate task of tracking him down?"

"Someone may have aske me to look into it," he confirmed, omitting that though the request had come from Art, the person who asked him about it most was Tim.

"You'll be the first person to know if I do hear from him," she said, "but he probably thinks that I am dead."

"That'll only last for so long, though. Especially with no obituary in the paper," he offered her a cup of coffee with Tim's name on it. It had been Raylan's turn to pick coffee up on the way to work and since they had both already finished their own drinks, it seemed only right that they start on someone elses.

She took a sip and frowned, "Does he always take so much sugar?"

"I think he just wants to know how much he can have before his hands start to shake."

They were quiet for a moment and she asked, "Tell me about Boyd Crowder."

"I hope we aren't in the elevator long enough for that story," he grumbled.

"I don't care about your boyhood friendship," she said, waving the notion away with her good hand, "I want to know why one of the most radical supremacists in the state blew up a church with a rocket launcher and then... just stopped."

"God," Raylan told her.

"I'm sorry, God?"

"God," he confirmed.

She frowned, "That's unusual. God is typically used as a justification- there are quite a few bible verses that are pretty damning to minorities if they are taken out of context."

A small voice came out of the call box on the elevator control panel. It was Art. They've got to restart the system, so the lights are going to go off for a minute or so and then it should reset itself to the bottom floor." there was a pause and he asked, "Did you drink my coffee?"

"You know," Raylan replied turning lazily to the camera in the elevator corner, "I'm not even sorry."

"I'm going to remember this, Givens," Art growled before the lights went out.

"I am shaking in my boots," Raylan said into the darkness.

The lights came back on, but the elevator didn't move.

"This is not my favorite day," Sarah muttered looking at the door.

"Why do you study racists?" Raylan asked, hoping to satisfy a curiosity and to keep time from slowing to a crawl.

"Because they don't make any sense," she smiled. "If you take a black man and a white man, lay them out on a table right next to each other, cut them open and SHOW a racist that they are exactly the same on the inside it wouldn't matter. It doesn't make a hill of beans difference, because the man on the left has skin that is dark and scary."

He met her eyes. He didn't think that she was lying, but he didn't think that she was telling him the whole truth either.


	8. Chapter 8

Tim tried to work that day but ended up spending most of it tapping his thumbs on his desk and glancing at the elevator. Rachel observed this for more than two hours before she assured him that Raylan and Sarah were safe.

"I know," he said briefly shifting his eyes to her before he went back to his elevator surveillance.

"Would you just relax?" Rachel requested. "You've been stuck in that elevator before. You know that they'll be out of there by quitting time."

He forced his face into a deeper frown and grunted in response.

"Sarah is fine," she offered quietly.

"What?" he asked, finally meeting her eyes.

"I had lunch with her yesterday. She's a little bruised, but she is fine."

Rachel was certain that something changed in his face- something that softened his worried brow. He looked down at his computer for the first time that day, certain that he had been found out. He tried very hard to keep the smile off of his face and she laughed out loud at his lack of success. "Damnit, Rachel!" he grumbled through his grin.

There was something comforting about how well that Rachel knew him, but it also meant that she saw through his bullshit twice as fast as anyone else.

"I didn't tell her," she assured him. She was surprised when he stood quickly and marched off down the hall. He was gone for several minutes and when he returned he dropped the small bag of Milano cookies he'd gotten from a vending machine onto her desk in front of her. He sat down without a word and began typing.

"Cookies will only keep me quiet for so long," she assured him, but smiled as she ate them.

They sat in silence sifting through mountainous stacks of paperwork for nearly three more hours before Sarah and Raylan were finally freed from the confines of the elevator. Tim tried to keep his cool, but Rachel saw his eyes follow Sarah to the small table she was using as a desk.

"I believe that I was supposed to have a cup of coffee," he hassled Raylan after he'd assured himself that Sarah was in one piece.

"We just spent six hours in the elevator. That coffee didn't stand a chance," Raylan explained.

"Besides," Sarah said appearing at his desk, "It would be ice cold by now."

"'Course, given all of the sugar you put in it, it might have turned into ice cream instead," Raylan added.

"Now, now," Art said, making his way over, "They drank my coffee too. I hate to think of what they might find in their coffee cups tomorrow morning."

"I have a concussion," Sarah informed him gravely. "I was not aware of my actions."

"Coffee is serious business and I'll have none of your excuses," Art returned in kind.

His phone beeped loudly and he was still laughing at his own joke when he answered it. He was quiet for a moment while he listened and then asked, "Are you serious?" another pause, "Okay, thanks.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked Sarah after he hung up.

She frowned, but joined him in his office where he closed the door behind them. "Nathan Mitchell just escaped police custody on the Virginia-Kentucky border. They pulled him over for speeding."

"And he escaped!? How does he DO these things? That is at least the second time he's escaped from custody. He shouldn't be good at that, he's a car salesmen!" she sounded exasperated rather than scared.

Art pressed on, "He was crossing the border back into Kentucky when they stopped him. He may be coming here for you. I want to offer you protection again."

That stopped her in her tracks. "Why?" she asked him.

"Because last time he found you he could have killed you. Luckily that's something he isn't good at."

She was quiet, studying his face. "No," she finally answered.

"No!?"

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Maybe you should be," he said as she turned to leave the office.

She stopped for a moment, but did not look back at him.


	9. Chapter 9

Tim watched Sarah for a long time before he went to talk to her. She was hunched over her laptop typing slowly, and somehow angrily, with her good hand. Once again he felt silly for allowing her to burrow into his brain the way that she had. He was the master of calm and collected when he was staring down a murderer or terrorist with a gun, but three days after her captivity in the elevator he still hadn't mustered the courage to ask her to dinner.

"Breathe," Rachel whispered from her desk. She was smiling when he looked over at her.

"By golly, you'd think that the boy had never talked to a girl before," Raylan responded quietly from his desk.

He jerked his head around to look at Raylan, surprised.

"No, it wasn't all over your face, but we're your friends," Raylan said. "Now go talk to her."

He decided as he stood to ask her if she wanted to grab lunch instead of dinner- something more neutral that he could use to gauge her reaction. He felt confident until he was standing next to her desk. He watched for a moment as she stared daggers at the splint binding her broken finger. There was a deep, black frustration in her eyes that he wanted to erase by any means. Dinner, dancing, a quiet house in the country. The moon?

Instead he asked, "You going to make it?"

"I suppose," she answered simply.

"Would you like to-" he started

She interrupted him: "Will you show me?"

"What?" he was confused.

"How to load a gun."

Smiling, he pulled his handgun from its hip holster and popped the clip out. He inspected it and reloaded it. She held out her hand, asking with her eyes if she could try to reload it herself. He gave it to her and showed her how to disengage the clip and how it went back in. She repeated the motion clumsily a couple of times, hampered by her broken finger, before she could do it without examining her hands as she went.

"Will you teach me how to shoot it?"

"Have you never shot one before?"

"I'll remind you, Marshal, that I am a doctor, not a lawman," she replied primly. Her face became more serious. "Besides, I've never felt like I needed to know how to before now."

"Are you sure you don't want Raylan to teach you? He used to teach firearms at Glynco." he told her.

"I want you to teach me."

"We can go to the firing range tomorrow after work if you'd like. Are you sure that your ribs are up for it?"

"I'm sure."

There was a determination in her simple reply that found it's way into his heart and in that moment he thought that he might be in love with her.

Tim replayed that conversation in his mind later and his heart skipped a beat when she asked him to teach her to shoot. It would probably not have seemed romantic to other men, but the firing range was one of his favorite places and spending time there with Sarah would make it that much better.

As his mind wandered in circles around what he might say to her it became clear that he wasn't going to be able to sleep without some assistance so he had a couple of drinks to calm his nerves and quiet his thoughts. It took more than an hour, but he finally drifted off into sleep that wasn't very restful.

When he woke up the next morning he was as anxious as a teenager going on his first date, his head pounding from the whisky that had aided him to sleep. He took a hot shower and it helped to ease the pain in his head, but it was still going to be a long haul to quitting time.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a long day for Sarah too. She spent her time as she always did, pouring over notes and files, but the day crawled. Even her trip to the jail to interview Jimmy Joe about his involvement with Shemmy Williams and Clifton Stephson failed to speed up the clock. When she returned, Tim was watching the door as though he'd been waiting for her to come back and her heart jumped up into her mouth and stayed there until the end of the workday.

She stopped to talk to Rachel that afternoon on her way out to meet Tim by the elevator. She could see him standing by, waiting patiently.

"Look at him out there, cool as a cucumber," Rachel observed,"except that he keeps checking his watch." It had taken her three whole hours to recognize Sarah's interest in Tim. She'd kept quiet about it, but Sarah had sensed a sisterly approval ever since Rachel caught her peeking at him from across the office.

"He may be the only person I know who still wears a watch," Sarah observed. Then she turned to Rachel, concern clear on her face, "He's not going to turn into a drill instructor, is he? I've never fired a gun in my life."

"That boy has got stars in his eyes. You are going to walk all over him."

"I hope you're right," She walked out to meet him feeling like a girl on prom night whose date has finally arrived.

Raylan watched Sarah and Tim get into the elevator. As soon as they were out of sight he asked, "Are they finally-"

"Yes," Rachel interrupted.

"Took long enough," he replied. He glanced over to see if Art had noticed them leaving together. Art was looking right back at him and waved him into the office.

"You heard anything on Nathan Mitchell yet?" Art asked when Raylan stuck his head in.

"Nothing to write home about. He's got a list of assault charges that Sarah either doesn't know about or doesn't want to acknowledge, but they all happened after the divorce date so it might just be that she isn't aware."

"Are they all assaults on women?"

"There are seven and they are all women that he was in some kind of relationship with."

Art sighed. He'd felt quite a bit of unease on the subject of Nathan Mitchell ever since Sarah had refused his offer of protection, and though he'd made it clear in the following days that it was a standing offer, she'd made no move to accept it. "Has she left yet?"

"Yeah." He tried to keep his face neutral and wasn't sure if he succeeded or not. Art gave him a weird look and he suspected he'd failed so he scooted out of the office as quickly as he could.

"What was that about?" Rachel asked when he sat back down at his desk. She was signing off of her computer and sorting her paperwork to be ready for the next morning.

"Sarah's ex."

"Do you think that he will try to kill her again?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

Rachel paused for a moment, "There's not really anything that we can do, is there?"

"Not unless she accepts federal protection."

"I'll bet she and Tim spend a lot more time together than they have been. Maybe that will make a difference," she reasoned

"I hope so. I'd hate to see what would happen to Art if that girl got herself killed."

Rachel didn't say it, but she was more worried about what might happen to Tim. She thought of how easily he'd handed his gun over to Sarah the day before. If something happened to Dr. Snow it would turn Tim into someone none of them would recognize. It would send him to a place from which he may never return. Rachel closed her eyes and prayed that Nathan Mitchell would never show his face in Lexington ever again.


	11. Chapter 11

There were very few things in Sarah's life that she had ever been unsure of. Tim Gutterson was no exception.

He was a little quiet until they reached the firing range, but his entire demeanor changed when they walked inside. He'd brought his own ear plugs, but he grabbed a pair of earmuffs for her and led her down to the far end of the range. It was just them for the moment, but he didn't want to get in the way of anyone else who might come to shoot for a few minutes after work.

He showed her the proper way to stand, the right angle for her elbows and hips, and the right way to look down the sight. None of the basic groundwork prepared her for the kick the handgun gave her still-battered frame. It also didn't prepare her for the rush that came with firing the weapon. She inhaled and exhaled slowly when she squeezed the trigger, just as he'd told her to do. She barely grazed the edge of the target sheet.

He encouraged her, "Try again. Once you get used to the kick you'll be more accurate."

She fired a couple of more rounds with no visible improvement. Tim reached around her on both sides and adjusted her arms. She allowed herself a moment to be intoxicated by his touch, her breath caught in her throat. "Try it now," he said.

This time her shot hit the outer ring of the bullseye. She looked to see if his smile matched hers and was surprised when it didn't.

"What?" she asked turning to him and removing her ear protection. He took the gun from her and clicked on the safety. "Tim?"

He was quiet for another moment, but his heart was pounding in his ears and body was singing. He took her hand and when he couldn't think of what to say he kissed her. She was so surprised that for a moment she couldn't move. Then her body turned to jello.

He kissed her gently, tasting her. She kissed him back so that he would know that she wanted to be kissed. When his hand settled on the small of her back she arched into him. They were both breathing hard when she pulled her head away.

"Tim, I..." she whispered, then said more firmly, "I have wanted that for weeks."

This time his smile matched hers exactly. He kissed her again, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her against him.

* * *

Her ribs were too sore for them to make love that night, though they both desperately wanted to. Despite that setback, he took her home and crawled into bed with her. They made out like teenagers and then just laid there in the dark and talked.

"When did you know?" she asked.

"About what?" he was unsure of what she meant.

"About this. When did you know that you wanted this?"

He paused, trying to decide what to say, "I've thought about it since we first met, but I didn't know for sure until you fell on the steps when I brought you back from the hospital." He smiled in the dark, "When did you know?"

"The day before," she said. He could hear a smile in her voice as well. "When you brought me that cookie."

The day before Sarah had been released from the hospital Rachel had briefly relieved him of his protection duties so that he could go home, shower, and sleep. He grabbed a sandwich from the drive-thru on the way back and had also gotten her a chocolate chip cookie.

"I'd been eating horrible glop for days. That may have been the best cookie I've ever tasted."

They lay together in silence for a while before he asked, "What was it like? Being with a man who hit you?"

"I never was. Not really. I had a very normal relationship until he hit me. After that we were no longer together. Our marriage was over in that moment"

He thought quietly on her answer for a few moments and then blurted out, "I have PTSD."

She lifted her head to look at him in the dark, "From Afghanistan?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad that you told me."

"It doesn't worry you?"

"I don't..." It was her turn to pause. "You thought it would scare me."

"It scares most people," he told her, relieved.

"It's going to take more than that to run me off." she assured him, her statement trailing off into a yawn. She laid her head back down on his chest and snuggled down into the crook of his arm. She fell asleep there snoring gently, something she had never done before her nose had been broken. He laid awake and listened to her breathing for a long time before sleep took him.

* * *

He took her to dinner after work the next day and the day after that she made dinner for him at her house. They were almost finished eating when his phone beeped and lit up. He was grabbing for it when hers lit up as well. Art was on his line and Rachel was on hers. They were told the same thing: There had been another bombing and this time there was a hostage. Come to the house on Rose.

"Stay here," Tim said, grabbing his coat.

"What? Rachel wouldn't have called me if Art wanted me to stay here," she said, following him to the door.

He started to protest, but she stepped out behind him, closed the door and locked it.

"Come on," he grumbled. "But you have to stay back."

"Tim, I'm going to do what Art needs me to do," she stopped him and looked him square in the eye. "I will never ask you to not do your job, no matter how dangerous it is. Don't put me in the position of having to tell you no."

He was completely still for a moment and then he nodded. He kissed her and then led her to the car.


	12. Chapter 12

"Why are you together? No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know," Art chided when they arrived on Rose St.

"You should be so lucky as to be in attendance when I make salmon and potatoes,"she informed him. "I know why you called him, but why do you need me?"

"Clifton Stephson is in there as you suspected and he put in a personal request to speak to, in his words, 'the bitch that helped you find me.' We think that Shemmy Williams told him from prison that you were here. He remembers talking to you when he was being questioned for something in Georgia before the crack-house fires."

"So you want me to go talk to him?"

"Yeah, but you aren't going any further than you are right now without a vest." Art told her. He went to let Stephson know that she had arrived while she dutifully allowed Tim to fit her with a bulletproof vest.

"Be careful," Tim said quietly. "They're crazy."

"We're all crazy, Tim," she smiled as she said it. She followed Art out to the front walkway of the house and Tim hunkered down on the hood of one of the police cars with his long-range rifle. He had a perfect view of the front porch and windows.

Art answered the question in Sarah's eyes, "Just talk. He can hear you."

"What can I do for you, Clifton?" she asked the quiet facade.

The door opened. "I've been waiting for you," Stephson announced, stepping out onto the front porch. He had a young black woman at gunpoint. He was using her as a shield.

"I find myself flattered," she replied, taking a small step forward.

"Stop that," Art said quietly. Raylan smiled.

"Do you know what I will do to this bitch of you come closer?" Stephson asked, his voice even and calm.

"Probably not something good," she said. She glanced back at Art and he nodded. "I'll tell you what, though. You let her come to us and we might be able to find a way for no one to get hurt."

"How about you clear your buddies out. I'll let her go then."

"Now, Clifton, I'm just here to talk. Any decision like that is going to have to go through the Chief Deputy here," she told him.

She looked back at Art again. His face had hardened considerably. "

I'll go," she met his eyes, "I'll go If that's what it takes to get her out of there"

"No you won't," Art hissed back.

She narrowed her eyes at Art and turned back to Stephson, "I'm going to take a couple of steps in good faith. I want you to send her my way and I'll meet her in the middle."

Art reached out to grab the back of her vest and pull her back, but missed. Stephson started easing his hostage forward, gun still to her head. Raylan watching the hostage closely, ready to take her to the ambulance that was waiting for her on the road.

When they stood nose to nose, Stephson turned his gun from the hostage to Sarah. Raylan grabbed the crying woman and led her out of harms way.

Sarah held her hands up. "What would you like to talk about?"

He pressed the barrel of the gun to her forehead and cocked the hammer, "You're going to come inside with me and we are going to talk there. I got someone for you to meet."

She turned her head slowly to where Tim was watching through his gun's sight. He didn't move, but his mouth was pulled into a tight frown. She knew that she was between him and Stephson and that Stephson knew it too. She turned back, attempting to wipe any of the fear Tim may have seen from her face. "Lets go."

Tim frowned when Stephson opened the front door and marched a hostage out in front of him. He exchanged words with Sarah and Art, but Tim was too far away to understand them.

It was only years of training and discipline that kept him in place when she started walking forward, Stephson walking the hostage forward to meet her halfway. Surely Art hadn't allowed her to trade herself- but then he grabbed for her and missed the back of her vest by centimeters. Tim felt his lip curl when Stephson shifted his gun from the hostage to Sarah, moving so that she was a barrier between himself and Tim's rifle. Stephson said something that he couldn't hear and she turned her head and looked right at him. There was a look in her eyes that he did not recognize at first. She was afraid. Her eyes met his through the scope for just a moment and then she turned back.

She started walking forward, Stephson matching her pace, keeping her in the line of fire. The front door opened and a woman swung the the screen door out to allow Sarah and Stephson to enter and then closed the door behind them. The deadbolt snapped into place so abruptly that Tim heard it from the street.

He took off toward Art, rifle in hand, shouting, "Get her out! Get her out of there!"

The entire assembled police force gathered around Art for instructions. Tim listened closely to the orders being given but his eyes never left the front door of the house.


	13. Chapter 13

Sarah wrinkled her nose as she was pushed through the doorway. It smelled of sweat and sex and drugs and blood.

"We got her, baby!" the woman who had opened the door exclaimed. Sarah immediately recognized her as Stephson's sister, Clara.

"Damn right we did," he smiled back. "Billy, get the ties."

A large man that Sarah recognized from her previous interviews as William Routhaus bound her hands behind her with a ziptie. It was only then that Stephson lowered his gun. He embraced Clara like a lover would and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

Sarah was hard-pressed to hide her surprise. A voice behind her muttered, "Ain't right, is it?"

She recognized the man who had spoken to her from his picture in a file Art had given her to read though. Boyd Crowder was sitting there in the floor by the kitchen sink, his hands bound just the same as hers. "What are you doing here?" she asked calmly.

"I believe that they felt that I could be a significant ally to their organization. I attempted to explain that I have no further interest in the extermination of black folk as there is no profit in it, but it did not seem to do much to deter that opinion. I believe that I am being held until I come to my senses. What are you doing here?"

"I don't know." she replied. She looked back at Stephson who was pointing his gun at her again. He gestured her over to the floor by Boyd. "Who is running this?" he questioned once she was seated.

Believing that he meant the current situation she answered, "You?"

"Don't be a dumb bitch." he snapped back. "You know what I mean. You must know, otherwise you wouldn't have asked me all those questions before."

"You want to know who is running the communication network." He nodded and she felt a brief moment of triumph at his confirmation of it's existence. "Why would I know?"

"You were the one asking all the questions no one has ever asked me before. That means you know something and now I'm going to need you to tell it. We are fighting a holy war against Satan's niggers and I need to know where my orders are coming from."

Boyd grunted and rolled his eyes at the term 'holy war' and Sarah asked him, "Is this your fault?"

"There is always a certain likelihood," he replied.

"WHAT DO YOU KNOW?" Stephson leaped forward and screamed right in her face, pressing his gun to her throat.

"I don't know shit!" she yelled back. "Why would I spend so much time asking you questions I already know the answers to?"

Stephson clicked back the hammer on his revolver again, "I'm going to ask you one more time-"

Blood erupted from the side of his head and he collapsed in her lap, dead. There was a bang followed by the tinkling of broken glass and then Clara started screaming. Sarah checked the direction that the bullet had come from and found a single kitchen window that hadn't been boarded up. Tim stood outside, gun in hand, focused and ready to neutralize any threats that might enter the kitchen.

She was still watching him when the other officers kicked the front door in. Clara threw her hands up in the air and allowed herself to be arrested. Raylan pulled Stephson's body off of Sarah's lap and helped her up, cutting through the ziptie on her hands with a knife he had pulled from the drawer above her head.

Rachel led her out of the house and insisted that she be checked by the EMTs. It wasn't until she held her arm out for a blood pressure cuff that she realized how much blood and bone and brains she had on her clothes and in her hair. Tim checked on her from a distance, determined to perform his duties unless the lights and sirens started up.

When the house was cleared and all of the proper people were in handcuffs Art joined her on the tailgate of the ambulance, "That was damn stupid, Doctor."

"I know," she replied simply. She wiped at a dried smear of blood on her chin. "I was right, though."

"About what?"

"A white power organization. Stephson said that he was fighting a holy war and that he wanted to know who was pulling his strings. So I don't know anything more than I did, except now I know."

Tim was finally making his way over. He looked as tired as she felt.

"How is it?" Art asked.

"House is empty. PD found a pile of drugs and enough explosives to level the block," he replied. He looked Sarah in the eye, "You all right?"

Her only reply was a small smile. She turned to Art and asked, "Are you done with him for now? He's my ride."

It was Art's turn to smile a little, "Yeah, get out of here. Ain't nothing we can't handle."

She gathered herself up and made her way to the car, Tim guiding her along with a hand on her back.


	14. Chapter 14

She was quiet enough on the way home to make him worry- only responding to direct questions. He instructed her to take a shower when they got back to her house and she offered no resistance. He was just finishing cleaning up the meal they had left behind when the shower water turned off. He went upstairs and knocked on her door, "Can I come in?"

"Yes," her voice came from the other side of the door.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed brushing her hair.

"You okay?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"I think so." she got up and returned her brush to the bathroom "Are you leaving?"

"Do you want me to?" he glanced over at the door.

"No."

He turned to face her. She was unbelievably lovely in her tattered bathrobe. She came to him and he and embraced her, his head swam with the scent of her shampoo. She kissed him, deeply and with purpose, moving his hand to the tie on her robe.

"Your ribs-" he started, but she cut him off with another kiss.

In seconds she stood naked before him. He frowned as he ran his fingertips over the lattice of scars that Nathan Mitchell had left on her stomach. His brow relaxed when he looked back up to her face. Her hips were round and her legs were long.

She was perfect.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

He took special care to be gentle with her, to spare her any pain that her broken bones might give her, but he could hardly control himself as he slipped inside of her. She rewarded him with a soft moan that was almost a sigh and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair.

He had never been a lonely man, not when it came to matters of the bedroom, but it had never been like this- not like it was with her. She rocked her hips, moving with him, and as her pleasure mounted her breathing turned into sighs that reverberated in his ears. She cried out his name when her climax burst through her and that brought him to his as well. They rode that wave together, holding each other tightly when they reached the shore.

* * *

They made love again the next morning and then showered together. They ate a leisurely breakfast and were unapologetically late for work.

Art and Raylan were talking with Boyd Crowder in a closed conference room when they arrived, and when they were done she requested a moment with him. She closed the door behind them as they left and Boyd sat back down in his seat, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She sat down in the chair opposite of him and crossed her arms and legs, "You lied to me."

"Of course I did," he answered.

"Why did they have you there- really? And don't tell me that they had a business opportunity for you. You were tied up just like I was."

"They believed that I had the same knowledge that they were prepared to kill you for."

"Do you?" her expression did not change.

He leaned toward her, "Why would I tell you that?"

"I am going to find out, Boyd. You spend enough time in this office that I will have plenty of opportunities to talk with you." She leaned forward, mirroring his posture. "You may be smarter than all of the people in that room out there, but you aren't smarter than me."

He leaned back in his chair, "I like you. You got fire."

She frowned at what she knew was meant as a compliment. "Go away."

"Farewell until next time, sweet lady," he bid, letting himself out of the room. Raylan was standing there to escort him out of the building. "I like her," Boyd told him, "She's got fire."

Raylan grabbed his arm and dragged him out. Art filled the void that Raylan had left in the doorway, "That snake will bite you."

"Ah, you misjudge me, Chief. I aimed only to pique his curiosity, and to that end I have succeeded." She looked past Art and smiled at Tim who was watching her from his desk. He smiled back.

"That snake might bite you too," Art told her, pulling the door shut.

"What do you mean?"

"He has PTSD," Art said.

"I know. He told me."

"Did he also tell you that he might be an alcoholic?" his voice was serious.

There was something fatherly in his tone, some simple desire to protect her, but his choice of conversation made her feel defensive. She stood to address him, "I don't want to be disrespectful, Art, but I don't think that he would appreciate you telling me these things about him. He is a heavy drinker, but not an alcoholic."

"How can you be sure?" he raised an eyebrow. He seemed almost suspicious.

"Well, I do have a doctoral degree in psychology," she paused and glanced back out at Tim. "It wouldn't matter anyway if he was."

"And why not?"

She met Art's eye, "I am already in love with him."


	15. Chapter 15

Tim went back to his paperwork when he saw that Art had closed the door behind him. He was speaking with Sarah about something, probably the conversation she had had with Boyd Crowder. He didn't look up again until the door to the conference room opened and Art, cell phone in hand, shouted, "Scramble, we've got another bomb. I want to see weapons and vests."

Everyone jumped up, the room was a wash of activity. Sarah spoke briefly with Art and then she hurried over to Tim's desk. "Don't let 'em get you," she said softly, touching his arm.

"I never do," he smiled back, adjusting the velcro on the bulletproof vest he'd retrieved from the locker room.

"Bitch, I thought I killed you!" a voice announced from the main office door.

Tim grabbed Sarah into an embrace, spinning them around and switching their places.

The office filled with a loud crack that could only be the sound of a firearm discharging.

He felt the impact of a round in the back of his vest and dimly heard Sarah shout his name. The fear on her face told him that she had felt the thud of the bullet too.

He pulled his weapon and twisted at chest level, one arm still around her, protecting her with his body. He recognized the shooter even as he was pumping two shots into the mans chest. It was Nathan Mitchell.

The office fell silent. The sudden attack and retaliation had happened in a matter of seconds. Raylan kicked Nathan's gun out of his reach and then looked back up at Tim and Sarah. Art was already calling an ambulance. Sarah poked her head around Tim and when she saw who it was she whispered, "No," her face a mask of disbelief.

Nathan looked right at her as she walked up to him, "Killed you." he told her, blood trailing from the corners of his mouth. "Killed your bitch head. Still alive?" He coughed twice, blood foaming down his chin. He took a deep breath, then a shallow one, and then he was silent.

Sarah jumped up and turned, trying to escape on legs that felt like wooden blocks. Tim caught her and embraced her again, this time to offer comfort. She took several deep breaths and he was afraid for a moment that she was hyperventilating, but then she burst into tears.

He ushered her into Art's office and held her while she wept. He wouldn't know until later that those tears were the first she had ever cried over her ex-husband.

* * *

Nathan Mitchell was awarded a small funeral after a brief, definitive investigation of his intention to kill Sarah. His headstone displayed his birth date and deathdate, though she had joked icily about engraving 'Son, Brother, Asshole' under his name instead. Sarah, Tim, and Nathan's mother were the only ones in attendance.

After a brief service, Sarah hugged her former mother-in-law, tossed a handful of dirt down over the urn, and walked away.

Tim thanked the minister and ran to catch up with her. He found her leaning on the hood of his car. "You going to make it?"

"I think so," she replied, accepting his embrace without reservation. She hadn't cried since her tears in the office and she didn't sound like she would now. "I want to mourn him, but it doesn't seem right."

"It doesn't seem wrong," he told her, releasing her and reaching behind her to unlock her car door.

Then she did cry again, as though his simple statement had given her permission. She didn't stop until her anger had burned down to embers. When she was done blowing her nose he asked, "Want me to take you home?"

"Will you stay with me tonight? I'll make you some fried chicken from the frozen north."

He smiled, opening her door and holding her hand as she climbed in.


	16. Chapter 16

'Northern Fried Chicken' had seemed a dubious proposal, but it turned out to be quite good. The strange, stressful day was turning into a relaxing evening, but when Tim opened his third beer Sarah asked, "Do you have trouble sleeping?"

He looked up at her, already feeling defensive. He was offended by the idea that she might be trying to dig into his brain. Still, he answered evenly, "Ever since I got back from the desert."

"Bad dreams?" the concern in her voice wiped away his irritation.

"Insomnia," he answered, then conceded, "that probably started with bad dreams."

"Physical symptoms?" she wondered, getting up from her seat next to him. She brushed her fingers through his hair as she went by.

"Anxiety, mostly."

"But, physical. Sweating, chills, heart palpitations, muscle cramps or shakes?"

"Not really. Sometimes I wake up hyperventilating."

"I have something for that."

He barely had time to wonder about the smile he heard in her voice before she dropped something into his lap. He picked it up and examined it in the light and his heart nearly stopped. They were size eight, black and silky, and edged with lace.

She was halfway up the stairs when he jumped up to follow her. He caught sight of the curve of her hips in the dark at the top of the stairs and he nearly flew up to the landing where she waited for him. He caught her there and pinned her against the wall, trying to touch every part of her. They stumbled into her bedroom, fumbling to get their clothes off. He broke the zipper on her dress in his haste. They made love until they were both spent, breaking the spell of the stress of the last week. They fell asleep there together in the dark, the only sound the ticking of the clock.

Tim woke up at 5:30 the next morning. He'd slept soundly, with no dreams that he could remember. Sarah was still sleeping next to him, bare to the waist where the blankets pooled in a lovely cascade around her hips. He got up carefully to avoid waking her and went downstairs to have a cup of coffee.

He paused in the doorway to the kitchen when he noticed his barely-touched beer sitting on the table next to the wad of lace and silk she had thrown over his shoulder. They didn't seem right there together.

He stood there in his underwear staring at that bottle for several long minutes. He walked over to it slowly and picked it up and turned and upended it into the sink. It foamed as it escaped the bottle and a weight disappeared from his mind.

Sarah joined him downstairs when the coffee started brewing. She was wearing the shirt he'd taken off the night before. If she noticed the upside down beer bottle in the drain she said nothing about it, but she did wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his chest.

"Caffeine is the true way to a woman's heart, you know." she peeked up at him through her lashes

"I suspected as much." he told her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. It surprised him. It had been a long time since he'd felt like grinning.

She smiled in return set about pouring him a cup of coffee. The was something endearing about the small Snoopy mug that she presented him with. It felt like home, and that was far better than nothing.


End file.
